Chapter Eight

On the pretense of smoothing down his tie,Morgan petted the cherrywood burl softly humming against his chest. Thedrùidh’s charm had started to warm and gently vibrate the moment Mercedes Quill had placed her hand in his.

And now the damn thing was still not wanting to settle down.

Morgan sat at the tiny table of the restaurant nestled on the shore of Pine Lake. The dining room was dotted with only a few late diners, as most of the people had already moved to the adjoining dance floor and bar. Morgan absently listened to the lounge music and idle chatter between his cousin and his cousin’s woman, but his attention was definitely focused on his date.

The woman had cleaned up rather nicely from the woods sprite he’d encountered four days ago. He had almost forgotten how tall she was. But not how beautiful. Mercedes had shiny blond hair that fell in waves to the small of her back, golden skin that had been kissed gently by the sun, and an utterly feminine body that made his own skin tighten in response. She was arresting, and Morgan had noticed more than one man glancing at her during dinner.

Not that his date noticed. She seemed completely oblivious to her effect on men.

And that pleased him.

Morgan was also pleased that Mercedes was a woman of very few words. He’d gotten maybe a dozen sentences out of her all evening, and most of those had not been directed at him.

But what he really liked, what most drew him to Mercedes Quill, was the thing that most disturbed him: her eyes. They were the color of an autumn sky freshly washed by a fast-moving rain. Sparkling. Energized. Alive.

And he wanted to possess them.

To possess her. He wanted to wrap his arms around Mercedes, pull her lovely, supple body against him, and focus all five of his senses on her beauty.

Morgan stood up and held out his hand to Mercedes—his left hand this time. “I’d enjoy your company on the dance floor,” he said, making sure his voice didn’t betray his thoughts.

She appeared downright appalled by his invitation, her gaze darting from him to the dance floor, then swiftly back to him. She looked as if he had just asked her to take off all her clothes.

Now, that irked. Except for demanding that she give him her scarred hand back at the house, he’d been a perfect gentleman all evening. Hell, he’d set her in the backseat of the truck where she’d be safest, he’d ordered a delicious dinner of salmon for her, and he’d just ordered her a nice glass of sweet red wine, of which she’d only taken one sip.

He saw Mercedes suddenly jump as if she’d been kicked, and she snapped her gaze to her mother and scowled. Tired of standing there with his hand out and not getting the response he wanted, Morgan simply moved to the back of her chair and pulled it out.

Mercedes shot to her feet as if he had pinched her and leveled her scowl on him.

“I’d rather not dance,” she said.

He took her arm and guided her to the dance floor. “I promise not to step on your toes,”

he assured her, turning her into his embrace.

This was the nicest thing Morgan had discovered about modern society, the slow dancing. It was like courting in public. Perfectly acceptable. Encouraged, even.

Aye. He definitely liked dancing.

Except that dancing with Mercedes Quill was like wrestling with the ridge pole on the roof of his house. She was as stiff as a board and uncooperative. And Morgan soon discovered it washis feet that were in danger of being stepped on.

Holy hell. The woman didn’t know how to dance. He would subtly guide her in one direction, and her feet would head off in another instead, trying to lead him. Morgan couldn’t keep his smile from tugging free. And that little quirk seemed to deepen her scowl even more.

“Ah, lass. Just this once, just for five minutes, give me your trust,” he entreated, firming his grip on her waist and moving them into a rhythm that matched the music.

“I don’t like dancing.”

“In general, or just with me?”

“Both.”

He chuckled and pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin. It was definitely nice to dance with someone he didn’t have to bend over to hold.

“Maybe you’d enjoy yourself a bit more if you had drunk your wine,” he suggested.

She snapped her head up. “I don’t like wine.”

Morgan blew a sigh over her head, praying for patience. It was difficult being a gentleman to agràineag.

“Then why didn’t ya say so?” he asked, trying his damndest not to sound disgruntled, shoving her head back down so she wouldn’t see his own scowl.

“Because you didn’t give me a chance,” she muttered into his jacket. She popped her head up again. “Just like you didn’t give me a chance to order my own dinner.”

“You ate the salmon.”

“Because I happen to like salmon.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She blinked at him, started to say something, then suddenly sighed and returned her head to his shoulder. Morgan grinned. She was still having trouble finding her words.

That was fine with him. Her body language was all that mattered.

The woman in his arms slowly began to relax, and together they moved to the soft music, slowly learning to sway in harmony.

He wanted her. That simply, that urgently; he wanted Mercedes Quill with the passion of a man long lost and needing the anchor of a special woman. But what Morgan really wanted was for Sadie’s own simmering passion to ignite in his arms. Together they could probably light up the entire valley.

“Hey, Moose Woman!” someone hollered from across the dance floor.

His date’s feet stopped moving, and Mercedes stiffened into a pole again. Her fingers dug into his back, and Morgan wasn’t sure, but it felt as if she were trying to crawl inside his jacket.

“Moose!” the voice repeated, closer this time. “When did you get back?” the man asked as he and three other men and two women approached.

Mercedes stopped trying to hide and finally pulled free of his arms and turned around.

The quick glimpse Morgan got of her expression told him that this was not a welcome reunion with old friends. Her entire face was scorched red.

“It is you,” the man said. “I thought you had a job in Boston. What was it? Oh, yeah.

Meteorology. You make it as a weather girl yet?”

“Ah, no. I’ve moved back home,” Mercedes said, darting an embarrassed look around the room.

“Hey, that’s good. That you’ve come back, I mean. We’re just headed over to Nadeau’s for a beer. Want to join us?” The guy looked briefly at Morgan, then back at her. “You can bring your friend if you want.”

“No, Peter. We’re here with my mom and her date,” she told him.

“Aw, come on, Moose. We can catch up on old times,” he said, aiming a cajoling punch at her arm.

Morgan stepped forward and caught the man’s hand before it could connect with his date.

“Peter, is it?” he asked.

Peter nodded, trying discreetly and unsuccessfully to get his hand back.

“Well, Peter. My date’s name is Sadie, not Moose. And if you try to punch her again, I’m going to break your hand,” he finished softly, squeezing Peter’s hand just enough to get his point across before he released him.

Now, as warnings went, Morgan thought this one had been nicely delivered according to modern rules. His date, however, appeared to take exception. She whirled on him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Peter the idiot was even less believing. He actually took a step closer. So did the three men behind him.

Morgan gently pushed Mercedes behind his back. She stayed there all of three seconds before she came bounding back around to stand between him and the four now defensively postured men.

“I’m going to help them beat you up if you cause a scene,” she whispered in a much more threatening voice.

“You want to go with them?” he asked, trying to keep his smile from escaping. His date was flaming mad—and obviously unaware of the scene she was creating all by herself.